


in the absence of light

by tobeconvincedoflove



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Boarding School, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enjolras is not doing so hot™, Gen, High School, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues, courfeyrac and combeferre are trying, enjolras meet enjolras's feelings, he's having a rough time, lots of space talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 16:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9080611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: Things go to shit the summer before senior year.





	

**Author's Note:**

> TW for mental health issues, and there's talk of suicide, along with Enjolras not doing well during the entire fic.
> 
> Many thanks to screwsfallout (ao3)/wise-up-eyes-up (tumblr)/Caitlyn for being an insanely good editor/plot creator. :)

Combeferre starts his senior year of high school by knocking on his best friend’s door. In ten years at this school, he’s never once had to knock on Enjolras’s door. Granted, until last year they’d lived in the same room, but even when they finally, god _finally _, got the privilege of having singles, Enjolras always left his door unlocked.__

__So Combeferre knocked, desperate to see his best friend, after three months._ _

__He wasn’t worried, not yet. Summers apart were always hard, but this time, all of Combeferre’s calls and texts had gone unanswered. Combeferre knew Enjolras’s father was going to take away his phone, because he was usually pissed about something (usually Enjolras’s grades). This year, Enjolras had barely scraped a D in physics, which was reason enough, but he’d also been in a few fights last semester, and finally had broken Montparnasse’s cheekbone. That was bad. And Enjolras’s father wasn’t known for giving the benefit of the doubt, and Combeferre can imagine that all of Enjolras’s protests (Dad, he was making fun of Grantaire’s stuttering during his final presentation, and I tried to talk to him but—) never left his throat. So Combeferre masks a frown, and prepares himself, as the door opens._ _

__“Hey, ‘Ferre,” Enjolras says with a small smile. Combeferre tries to return it, he really does, but Enjolras looks… different. His wild gold curls have been mostly hacked off, he’s thinner—his cheekbones and jaw cut impossibly sharp lines, and there are circles under his eyes, ones that Combeferre is used to seeing at midterms, maybe, but not before the term has even begun._ _

__“I’d ask how your summer was, but I think I can gather.” It’s said lightly, but Combeferre notices the way Enjolras winces as they both enter his room. That, too, is different; there aren’t flags or club posters on the walls this year (no textbooks or papers or clothes everywhere); it’s bare and it’s organized. “Your dad leave yet?”_ _

__“Not quite. He’s in a meeting right now to get me into AP Physics,” Enjolras says, scratching at the back of his head._ _

__“How is he going to manage that? No offense, but—” Combeferre knows how much Enjolras hates physics, and how much it hates him right back._ _

__“I redid the course over the summer, got an A. He’s set on me being an engineer, so I need to take AP. He’ll throw some more money at them, probably offer to be our commencement speaker while he’s at it.” Enjolras ends the statement with a snort; he doesn’t give a rat’s ass if his father is Speaker of the House… in fact, he’d much prefer his father to stay as far away from government power as possible, especially when he doesn’t think LGBTQ+ people should have human rights and that Obamacare is the devil’s creation._ _

__“Oh? Is that what you did this summer?” Combeferre asks. He’s not trying to be pushy, he’s really not, he just wants to know what he’s dealing with._ _

__“Read a lot, ran a lot, studied a lot,” Enjolras shrugs. “Started some college applications.” Combeferre tries to hide the surprise on his face; Enjolras had never liked running before. He doesn’t know what to quite make of that change.._ _

__“Ugh. You’re grossly on top of things,” Combeferre says, crinkling his nose. Enjolras just nudges his shoulder a little bit._ _

__“You can’t tell me you don’t have a color-coded spreadsheet all ready to go.”_ _

__“Fuck off, dude.”_ _

__

____

:: ::

Courfeyrac is sitting across from Enjolras in study hall when he opens the email. He clicks the google form without thinking, because elections for Les Amis have always been a joke. They exist under the heading of a social justice club, and while they do talk about what’s happening in the world and run a few events on campus, they basically use their budget to order Domino’s. Enjolras is the founder and president, Combeferre is treasurer, Feuilly secretary, and Courfeyrac is their proud vice president. Every year, Bahorel pretends to run against Enjolras because Enjolras refuses to run unopposed, but his platform is usually “Elect Enjolras Again”.

So why is Bahorel the only person on the ballot for president?

Enjolras is abnormally quiet, eyes glued to his laptop. 

“What the hell, man?” Courfeyrac isn’t even trying to be discreet, and the resultant glare from the teacher does nothing to deter him. 

“Do you want to get us both detention?” Enjolras hisses, sliding his headphones off of to cut this off at the pass.

“Why aren’t you running for president? You literally founded Les Amis,” Courfeyrac all but squacks, and Enjolras shushes him. 

“I can’t. My dad says that with college applications and AP classes, I don’t have time.” Enjolras knows that’s a lame excuse, but he’s just… tired. He’s tired of fighting his father, and then defending his father to his friends, he’s tired of working so hard to keep from drowning with the black water that’s in his lungs, in his heart, in every part of of him, and he just can’t anymore. 

“That’s bullshit, Enj.” Courfeyrac doesn’t sound angry, but Enjolras can’t deal with this right now, so he just slips his headphones back on and turns back to—holy fuck that’s definitely physics. Enjolras hates physics.

Courfeyrac wasn’t planning on finishing his lab report during study hall anyway, so he opens up messenger on his computer—there’s a no phone rule during any school time but thank god for iMessage. Instantly, he’s making a group chat appropriately titled “Les Amis - The Chief.”

_So Enjolras won’t talk to me and it is//// the worst day of my life what is going on???_ he sends out, and immediately Bahorel is typing, freaking out because he does not want the responsibility of president. Also, apparently this is justified by him informing everyone that he killed a cactus on accident this summer.

_I don’t know what’s going on,_ Combeferre types. Courfeyrac feels his heart drop into his intestines at that. If Combeferre doesn’t know what’s wrong, they’re all fucked. They’re so fucked. The group text is exploding now, a combination of information sharing and worried confusion.Courfeyrac just watches it happen; no one knows what’s going on and Courfeyrac is scared. Courfeyrac remembers when he and Enjolras were both little kids, frightened of being away from home. Even then he didn’t feel this helpless. 

If Enjolras notices the crease between his best friend’s brow, he doesn’t say anything. He wants to, he wants to ask what’s wrong because he hates when Courfeyrac is worried, but even that seems to leave his bones feeling heavy, like the energy simply to exist is more than he has.

:: ::

Dinner doesn’t go well.

“Enjolras, what the hell—”

“You literally founded—”

“What happened this summer that—”

Enjolras leaves with a full plate. Only guilt fills his aching stomach.

:: ::

Since the beginning of summer, Enjolras wakes up each morning at exactly 5:20, feeling just as tired as when he collapsed into bed the night before. In the dark haze of early morning, nothing quite feels real; he'll look down and see his hands and his desk and the work he’s done, but it’s like he’s watching a movie of his life, rather than actually living it. So he laces up his shoes, ignores the way his whole body aches, and he starts running.

In the summer, he’d feel wet heat in his lungs and a burn in his legs as he ran, ran all the way to the state park, seven miles from his father’s house, ran into the woods (where the tourists never go), ran until he could feel his heartbeat behind his eyes, in his bones, ran until the only thing he could hear was the sound of his own breath.

Now, he feels his lungs ache and strain against the frigid morning air, and it helps somehow—the pain. It reminds him that he’s breathing. He runs, following paths deep into the school grounds and through the woods. He runs until his chest tightens and his legs burn and then he runs some more. He’s aware of his body, that he has a body, that he’s real, and he doesn’t want the day to strip that away. Sometimes the light of day will pry off layers and layers of Enjolras, until all that’s left is what his father has molded him to be. 

So he runs. And he thinks.

Enjolras read a lot about space over the summer, had swallowed Stephen Hawking and Brian Greene and Carl Sagan whole. Now he thinks about the universe a lot. Somewhere out there is a planet far enough away from his father that Enjolras might learn how to breathe again, but it’s accelerating away from him as the universe expands. He thinks about what it’s like to stand at the edge of a black hole, stuck in an eternal moment of spacetime and float amongst a blanket of stars. 

He thinks he shouldn’t talk to Combeferre about that. He’d think Enjolras means it in a way that he doesn’t—he doesn’t want to die, but Combeferre would hear something like that and drag him to the counselor and he doesn’t want that.

By the time he’s dragged himself to the floor’s bathroom, standing in a shower stall with water pounding hot against his skin, he hears the familiar hum that means Courfeyrac is awake and ready for the day. Enjolras remembers the days when Courfeyrac would serenade him so loud that Combeferre would stumble in and threaten to kill them both. Now Enjolras wishes Courfeyrac would leave him alone, Enjolras doesn’t know why he wants that, why talking to his best friends makes him feel worse, and then he feels guilty about that, and then he just feels tired. 

So he doesn’t let Courfeyrac know he’s there, just shuts the shower off and shakes water out of his hair. Courfeyrac is singing as he styles his hair, but when he sees Enjolras he stops. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you up this early,” he comments, and Enjolras just shrugs. 

“I run in the mornings now,” he says, and he can already feel himself start to float away. 

“Really? How far?” Courfeyrac is trying too hard, and Enjolras just sighs. He can guess where this conversation is heading.

“Just for an hour or so — usually about ten miles,” Enjolras shrugs off. “Less than I’d run over the summer.” 

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras can tell he’s worried, mentally cataloging it for something, but he doesn’t really care. “You know, the cross team is always looking for more runners. You should check it out.” 

“I don’t think I have the time,” is all Enjolras says in response. 

“You mean your father wouldn’t like it?” 

Okay, Enjolras is not having this conversation right now. 

“That’s not what I said. Look, I have to get ready for class.” He tries to push past his friend. But Courfeyrac stands in the way.

“No, Enjolras. That _is_ what you said, which is odd because you don’t really seem to say anything anymore.” Courfeyrac regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, because he can see Enjolras’s eyes dull, watches him retreat back into himself. 

“I have to go.” The words scrape against Enjolras’s throat. That’s thing about all of this; he doesn’t know why he’s pushing his friends away. They’ve always been what’s grounded him, they’ve helped him stand strong against his father. But this past summer, when he had no contact with anyone, he’s almost gone mad. Enjolras is terrible at being alone; he needs people to pull him out his head. After an entire summer with only his thoughts for company, something had snapped. Now, trying to keep up with appearances, trying to be the guy who founded Les Amis, to be the student his teachers expect and the person his friends expect, is just… too much energy. 

He doesn’t want to worry them, but he knows they already are. Stepping down from Les Amis was horrendously obvious, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

He can pass physics, he can be an engineer, he can do that. He’ll still be him, but with the added benefit of not pissing off his dad. Right? 

(Enjolras doesn’t think he’s been himself for a while.)

:: ::

“So Enjolras is running in the mornings.”

It’s AP Studio Art, which means that Grantaire and Courfeyrac are dicking around; Courfeyrac is sketching something that he’ll eventually paint and Grantaire is messing around with clay. It’s an eight a.m. class, so they’re not feeling too motivated. 

“What?” Grantaire is frowning. “He doesn’t run.”

“Apparently he does. Wakes up at 5:30 and runs for an hour,” Courfeyrac explains. 

“Well, that’s odd… but maybe it’s a way for him to work off anxiety?” Grantaire responds, turning back to his largely unaltered hunk of clay. 

“It’s Enjolras. He’s not talking to me or ‘Ferre or anyone. He barely speaks during class, and he doesn’t say anything at dinner.” Grantaire can see Courfeyrac’s chin start to tremble and he knows Courfeyrac is going to lose it if he keeps speaking. “He hasn’t shown up to Les Amis once, R,” Courfeyrac says, and now he’s swiping angry tears away from his face. He hates that he’s an angry crier, but he’s just so worried he doesn’t know what to do. 

“And you’re pushing him.” Grantaire has an inkling of what might be going on, an inkling that feels awkward and wrong (because he knows about those impossible days, the ones where he needs the tang of orange in his nose or the biting cold of ice in his hands to feel real, to remind him that he’s alive and breathing). But this is _Enjolras_. 

“What else am I supposed to do, R?” Courfeyrac starts off angry, but it ends with a voice crack that can’t be anything but pure hurt. “He’s not talking to us. Combeferre is losing it because he can’t figure out what’s wrong, and Enjolras just… he’s slipping away.” 

“Don’t push him. Look, it’s obviously not working. I’m not saying you shouldn’t try to help, but this isn’t the way. Honestly, man, he looks like he needs a Courfeyrac hug,” Grantaire says, trying to keep his voice neutral. 

“What if that’s not enough?” Courfeyrac asks. At that, Grantaire places a clay-covered hand over his friend’s. 

“Then we’ll figure something else out. We’ll get him through whatever this is.” 

Already, Grantaire is thinking. He’s thinking about what he knows of Enjolras, and what he knows about himself. He knows that on days where his bones want to disintegrate back into ash and star-stuff, he needs something strong; something burning hot or icy cold, something that stings his nose and fills his lungs. He knows tricks to force an uncooperative body out of bed in the morning, how to lull a loud and spiralling brain to sleep, he knows how a body tired of fighting its own mind needs someone else there, a barrier that stops the battle and lets both sides rest. 

And then there’s Enjolras. He thinks about the kid who decked Montparnasse for insulting Grantaire’s final project in history, about the scheming founder of the Les Amis, about the smiling boy with crooked teeth that are just visible with a grin, and his heart breaks a little. Grantaire realizes that, this year, Enjolras hasn’t been any of those things. And that is enough to terrify him.

The good news is that Grantaire might be able to help. It might also blow up in his face.

Great.

:: ::

Enjolras is almost done with his morning run when he trips. Normally, it would be nothing, but he’s been skipping dinner to avoid Courfeyrac’s sad eyes and Combeferre’s probing questions. He’s been managing (well, sort of, this week he’s skipped all of his classes twice because he laid down after a run and couldn’t get out of bed) There are nights when he can smile and laugh with everyone, and it’s like nothing was ever wrong. He can study with Combeferre and watch shitty Netflix shows with Courfeyrac. He thinks that he feels happy sometimes.

But not now. Enjolras trips. And he stumbles straight into Grantaire. 

“Woah. You all right there?” Grantaire’s voice is tender and gentle, and Enjolras feels warmth spread through his chest. He’s hyper aware of Grantaire’s arms around him, of the way his hair smells in the crisp morning. 

“Yeah,” Enjolras responds, just a little bit breathless. He hasn’t moved out of Grantaire’s arms. He doesn’t know why, but everything feels a little bit easier. “What are you doing up?”

“You don’t have a monopoly on morning strolls, Enjolras.” Grantaire hasn’t let go of Enjolras, but he’s shifted their positions so that they can walk back to their dormitory. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in gov this week.” 

Enjolras doesn’t even bother trying to answer that. 

“Too hard to get out of bed?” 

Shit. Enjolras’s heart speeds up, because there is no way that Grantaire knows, just instinctively, what’s going on. “Yeah, I did that a lot sophomore year.” 

“How did you… how did you fix it?” Enjolras asks, trying not to sound eager. 

“It depends on what the problem is,” Grantaire says as he squeezes Enjolras’s shoulder a little. 

“Oh. Well I don’t have a problem.” Enjolras doesn’t know why he says that, because then Grantaire is pulling away and the real world crashes back against him. 

“You do, Enj. You don’t sound like yourself.” Grantaire’s voice is soft, and he extends a hand towards Enjolras, both an invitation and challenge. “Just let me know what I can do to help.”

Enjolras accepts Grantaire’s hand, and something small slides into place inside the mess of his gut. 

“Okay.”

:: ::

Grantaire has a kind-of routine, now. He’ll meet Enjolras after his morning run, walk back to the dorms with him and get him to eat something. They’ll both go about their classes and then meet everyone for dinner; Grantaire will sit so that their legs are pressed against each other, and, if Enjolras wants to, they’ll go to Les Amis. Or if Enjolras can’t make himself go to the meeting, they’ll go to Enjolras’s dorm and Grantaire will just… hold him.

That’s what grounds Enjolras, it seems—Grantaire’s arms around him with only the sound of their breathing. Grantaire has gotten very good at noticing when Enjolras needs it; he can see the way his eyes are dragged down to his cheekbones, the way his shoulders slump just a bit more. 

On rare nights, Enjolras will talk. Those are the really bad ones. Enjolras talks about the universe and how it must feel to stand on the edge, constantly forced to expand. He’ll talk about black holes and singularities and then suddenly, he’ll talk about the land his father owns in Vermont. Enjolras will pause, and then he’ll talk about how he hates physics but he can’t stop reading about space, about how freeing and terrifying it is to realize how small we are in comparison to the multitudes of the universe. 

Grantaire just listens. He buries how much it hurts, hearing about what’s crushing Enjolras from the inside out. He thinks about telling Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but that feels gross and wrong and he knows Enjolras will never trust him again. So he doesn't.

Instead he just holds Enjolras, reminds him that his particles aren’t exploring the universe, but that his intestines and lungs and ribs and heart are right there inside of him, that Enjolras’s body is real.

One night, when Enjolras is talking in the face of a poor exam score in physics, shaking in Grantaire’s arms, the door opens. 

“I had a good talk with Combe—” 

Courfeyrac is in the room. Immediately, Grantaire is up, pushing Courfeyrac out into the hall, trying to shoot Enjolras a reassuring glance.

“I’ll take care of it,” he promises, trying to keep Enjolras from closing up. When he and Courfeyrac are in the hall, Courfeyrac almost explodes.

“What the hell?” he whisper-yells. “What are you doing?” 

“Look, I don’t know why it helps, but it does. Don’t be a dick about it, Courf.” Grantaire’s voice is firm, but Courfeyrac is running his hand through his hair, down his face, trying to hide how much it shakes. 

“Why? R, I have been trying to figure this shit out for _weeks_. Combeferre and I… we've tried everything, from all of the years we’ve known him, and nothing has worked. Why, why does this work? Why couldn’t you have told us?” Courfeyrac’s voice is tremulous, and Grantaire feels a twinge of guilt. He knows, because he attends the super secret meetings and reads the super secret group chat, how much Enjolras’s best friends are struggling. But he has to prioritize Enjolras.

“He needs to feel grounded, and hugging him or being close helps with that. I wanted to tell you more times than I can count, but it’s a very… private thing, Courf. And I didn’t want to push him away,” Grantaire explains.

“And it helps?” Courfeyrac asks, and Grantaire can already see the gears turning in his friend’s mind.

“Yes.” There’s an understanding that passes between them.

“Tell me what to do.”

:: ::

“I hate physics,” Enjolras says with a groan, plopping down next to Courfeyrac and Combeferre at their table in the library.

Immediately, Courfeyrac scoots closer, leaning his head against Enjolras’s shoulder. He’s picked up little tricks from Grantaire, and they’re working beautifully. Enjolras smiles, and Courfeyrac counts that as a win.

“I’m guessing the exam grades are up?” he asks, and Enjolras just sighs a little.

“Yup. If I want an A before midterm reports go out, I need a fucking 98 on the midterm next week,” Enjolras admits, putting his head in his hands. “And my dad already emailed me about it.” 

“What did he say?” Combeferre asks, looking up from his lab report. 

“That I better get a 98.” Enjolras puts his head on the table. “I hate things that spin.” 

“Ew, rotational motion,” Courfeyrac says, scrunching his nose up. “Don’t you have to go home the weekend after midterms, too?”

“Not home. There’s some event at the White House and it’s supposed to be a family thing,” Enjolras corrects, sighing a little. “I’m not looking forward to it.”

“Your life is surreal,” Courfeyrac comments. “You have Malia Obama’s phone number and you’ve been in the White House like a million times, but you’re treating it like a trip to your senile grandparents.” 

“It’s not that, Courfeyrac. It’s the amount of time I’m going to spend with him,” Enjolras corrects. “Malia texted me this weekend, wanted to make sure I was going.”

“I hate you.” Courfeyrac just shakes his head, laughing a little. 

“Not as much as Enjolras hates physics,” Combeferre says, smiling devilishly. 

“Do you remember when we were upset at multiplication tables?” Courfeyrac smiles, remembering the first few years of school together. Back when they could be anything. Combeferre was going to be an astronaut, Courfeyrac an author, and Enjolras… Enjolras was going to be an archeologist. 

So much has changed—Combeferre is pre-med, Courfeyrac wants to be an actor, and Enjolras, well, he’s on track to become an engineer (even though, if he’s honest with himself, he’d rather do anything else.)

“You never did them until two minutes before class,” Combeferre reminds. 

“You can’t talk—you were the one who stole the snake out of bio when you were eight.” That’s Enjolras, now, and Courfeyrac feels his heart melt.

“Okay, that was one time.”

“One time too many,” Enjolras snorts. “As I recall, Bruce ended up in my bed.” 

“I’ve been apologizing for that for ten years, Enjolras.”

It almost feels normal, easy. The teachers here refer to them as either the three musketeers or the unholy trinity, depending on what age they got all three at. The poor old middle school math teacher dealt with clocks changing times and Courfeyrac hiding under his desk for entire lectures, but everyone knew that those three boys would always be inseparable.

:: ::

One week later, Enjolras walks out of his physics midterm with shaking hands and a heavy heart. He knows he did well, but he knows it’s not enough. It’s not enough.

He’s not enough.

:: :: 

“Enjolras?” Combeferre knocks on Enjolras’ door, and when he hears no response he just walks in. Enjolras is laying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling with a blank expression.

“Oh. Hey, ‘Ferre.” Enjolras sounds like he swallowed razor blades. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even turn his head. “How were your midterms?”

“How was physics?” Combeferre asks, deliberately not answering Enjolras’s question.

“It wasn’t enough. I know that it wasn’t enough,” Enjolras says, his voice hollow. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” 

“Do you even want to be an engineer?” Combeferre doesn’t mean to sound harsh, but it’s been almost two months of this. Almost two months of Enjolras barely speaking, barely eating, barely doing anything but what his father wants. It’s not healthy, and Combeferre doesn’t know why he can’t seem to help].

He was there when Enjolras’s mother overdosed, and after the funeral, when Enjolras couldn’t hold himself together. He was there every time Enjolras fought with his father, when Enjolras developed anxiety so bad that he had an attack and passed out in the hall after exams. He was there for every stumble, every rough patch, and now… he can’t seem to help at all.

But Grantaire, who fought with Enjolras for _years_ , he magically makes it all better.

“Does it matter? Look, I have to go see R, and—” 

“Why do you always run to him?” Combeferre feels anger flare deep within his stomach. He’s just so frustrated and hurt and confused and worried and he doesn’t know why he’s this angry but he is. 

“He helps, ‘Ferre,” Enjolras responds, his voice quiet and low and—shit, that makes Combeferre add guilt to the swarm of emotions in his gut. 

“Then why can’t I help? Enjolras, I’ve been trying, but every time I get close you pull away.” As if to illustrate the point, he reaches out for Enjolras, who flinches just a little bit. “See?”

“I just… I can’t—” 

“That’s not even why I’m mad, E. I’m mad because you’ve given up. Why are you listening to your father?” There, Combeferre has finally said it. He doesn’t understand how somehow, over the course of three months, Enjolras changed completely, lost all of the fight that makes him who he is. 

“I can’t help it, ‘Ferre. I just—” 

“No! You know he’s wrong, but you’re doing everything that he wants, everything that you promised you wouldn’t. You hate physics, you hate engineering, and it’s not going to get better if you just lie down and take whatever he doles out! I thought you were stronger than that, Enj.” 

“You don’t understand! ‘Ferre, you don’t know what it’s been like. It was three months with no one It was just me and him, and—” Enjolras voice cracks, a horrible noise that Combeferre knows he’s not going to forget any time soon. “And I don’t know why I can’t fucking bring myself to go to Les Amis anymore, or why Grantaire helps, or why I can’t fucking seem to do anything right this year, but I’m just so _tired_ , all of the time. I just… I can’t keep fighting my father and fighting here and fighting you. I can’t fight with you, too, ‘Ferre.”

“Then let me help. That’s all I want.” 

“I can’t. I don’t know why, but I can’t.” There’s something terrifying about letting everyone in again, exposing himself when he’s at his worst. Grantaire is inevitable at this point and Courfeyrac has already seen, but he knows what it’s going to do to Combeferre. And he can’t. He can’t do that.

“Why not? Enj, I’m not going to worry more than I already am.”

“I’m sorry, ‘Ferre.” There are tears streaming down Enjolras’s face now, but Combeferre feels a bubbling in his stomach and then he’s—

“Do you not know what this has been doing to all of us? Joly is one step away from dragging you to the counselor, and everyone is walking on eggshells. Because if we make one mistake, it feels like you’re going to disappear? Do you not know how much that hurts?”

Again, Combeferre reaches out, but Enjolras pulls away.

“I know, ‘Ferre, I know! I feel terrible, and reminding me of it isn’t going to help anything! I know that you’re struggling! I just don’t know how to deal with it!” 

“Don’t go back with your father. You know that’s going to make it worse. If you care about any of us, you won’t go.” 

It’s an ultimatum, and Enjolras has never been good at those. He grabs his bag and leaves, not trying to hide the tears streaming hot and heavy down his face. 

That’s when Combeferre breaks, too.

:: ::

“Let’s go talk somewhere private.” Grantaire has just sent Enjolras off to his father, tears still drying, and now Combeferre is the one at his door. Combeferre nods, eyes red-rimmed and guilty, following Grantaire through the halls of their dorm. When they’re finally in a locked room, Grantaire just sighs. “I thought you were sensible, Combeferre.”

“I know. I’m sorry, I just—” 

“I know it’s been hard,” Grantaire says. “But he was a _wreck_. He didn’t need that.”

“I know.” Combeferre swallows his pride whole, trying to keep from crying again. “I was a dick and I just sent him a really long text apologizing. I know I fucked up.” 

“But do you know why you hurt him?” 

“No.” Combeferre’s eyes meet Grantaire’s. “I don’t understand any of this.” 

“He reads a lot about space, you know.” Grantaire realizes that now he’s started, he won’t stop. He lets out all of Enjolras’s secrets, one by one until Combeferre understands everything. 

Because when Enjolras gets back, he’s going to need more than just Grantaire. He knows that. 

And now Combeferre does, too.

:: ::

Enjolras comes back late on Sunday night. Something feels different, feels worse, and he just wants to… he needs Combeferre. He’s read the entire apology; Enjolras responds with his matching one, because he can’t find the right words but he needs Combeferre to know that they’re okay. Now that he’s back, without any fronts to put up for the elites of Washington, he feels like Atlas.

How must that feel, to carry galaxies? Do his knees ever buckle, after thousands of centuries of carrying the burdens of every planet around every star?

Enjolras drops his suitcase at his door, and struggles under his own burdens (so small in comparison to Atlas, but too large for him), he makes the brief journey across the hall to Combeferre. If it were any other time, Enjolras would walk right in, but after their last talk, it doesn’t feel right. So he knocks. 

Almost instantly, the door opens and there’s Combeferre, hiding tired eyes behind glasses and dorky penguin pajama pants. 

“Enjolras?” he asks, concerned. Enjolras wants to say so many things, but there’s a pressure against his chest, and he can hardly breathe, much less speak.

So Enjolras does the only thing he can. He throws his arms around his best friend, needing to quiet what’s going on inside his head. He needs to not think about all of the times his father expressed his disappointment, of all the times he told Enjolras to do better, to be better, and Enjolras wanted to tell him that he was trying, that he’s doing the best he can, but it’s just out of reach. So he hugs Combeferre.

There’s a second of hesitation, but Combeferre wraps his arms around Enjolras, pulling the smaller boy in as tightly as he can. He doesn’t let go, not until he feels Enjolras’s heartbeat slow from frantic flutters to something in tempo with his own. He holds him tightly and rocks his friend and they don’t say a word but they have an entire conversation, apologies flying fast through the negligibly small space between them.

When Combeferre maneuvers them into his room, the door shutting with a light click, sitting Enjolras down on the bed, he hears a shaky breath. 

“Is it supposed to get worse?” he asks, as Combeferre sits down next to him. In response, Combeferre just leans Enjolras into him, lets the wild golden curls tickle the top of his head. 

“Is what supposed to get worse?” he asks, wrapping an arm around Enjolras. 

“That tired feeling, is it supposed to just get worse? Because it feels a lot worse right now,” he mumbles, and Combeferre just sighs. 

“I don’t know, E. I don’t know,” Combeferre replies, and then Enjolras is crying. He’s crying and he’s talking and Combeferre just holds him, lets him rid himself of his burdens. When he’s done explaining about how time has stopped feeling real, and how he thinks he’s stuck at the edge of a black hole, stuck experiencing an endless second before he’s sucked in, unable to yell for help, Combeferre just holds him tighter.

“Enjolras, have you considered seeing the counselor again?” Combeferre asks gently, looking into red-filled eyes. 

“Why?” Enjolras croaks out. 

“Because what you’re saying, it’s almost like in middle school. You’re just as anxious, but there might be something else—”

“It’s not as bad as middle school,” Enjolras argues weakly. “I can handle that stress, now.”

“But there’s something else going on. You said yourself that you’re always tired, and with everything that’s happening, you might be having a problem with depression.” Combeferre keeps his tone low and gentle, not wanting to scare Enjolras or push him away. “You know you’re not okay.”

“I’m not… I can’t be depressed,” Enjolras replies, his brow creasing. 

“Okay. But things might get easier if you just talk to the counselor again,” Combeferre says. “Your father won’t know.” 

“I’m not twelve anymore, ‘Ferre. I can handle this.” Combeferre wants to push back, he really does, but he knows that Enjolras will just shut down. Instead, Combeferre puts his head back on Enjolras’s head, and rubs his back until he falls asleep. He lays Enjolras down on his own bed and moves the suitcase out of the hallway and into his room. 

Enjolras needs the rest.

:: :: 

There isn’t a reason to get up until Thursday. Enjolras runs, but he finds himself collapsing back onto his bed, unable to stand back up. He doesn’t really sleep, just thinks and stares at the ceiling and ignores emails from his father. Sometimes, he thinks that Combeferre or Grantaire or Courfeyrac is there, talking to him, probably leaving food. But there’s a wall that separates Enjolras from the rest of the world, blurring every sight and sound so that it’s unrecognizable.

Until Wednesday night.

“Enjolras, you have a meeting with your advisor tomorrow,” Courfeyrac says, and god, he could cry when Enjolras actually turns his head to acknowledge what’s been said. 

“What?” Enjolras’s voice is barely a croak, lips chapped and cracked. He sits up, and immediately the world spins. “I don’t remember—”

“Check your email, Enj. He just wanted me to remind you, because you haven’t been in gov this week,” Courfeyrac says, sitting next to Enjolras, supporting his friend as he rides out the vertigo. “You want some water?”

It’s phrased as a question, but Enjolras knows an order when he hears one. He thinks he remembers getting up to drink and eat at some point, but his memory isn’t clear enough to be sure. So he accepts the water bottle, downing it in one go. 

“Thanks, Courf,” he says, looking down at his fidgeting hands. “I should… I should…”

“Eat? Take a shower?” Courfeyrac’s voice is light, but Enjolras’s only response is a shuddered breath. “I have your homework in my room, when you’re up to it.” 

“Yeah,” Enjolras says, leaning into Courfeyrac. “I will… I just…” 

“It’s okay, Enj. You don’t have to do anything just yet. Take your time.” Enjolras relaxes at Courfeyrac’s voice, and finds himself sinking towards sleep rapidly. “It’s okay. I’m here. You can sleep.” With Courfeyrac’s hand ghosting comforting patterns onto his back, Enjolras does.

:: ::

Enjolras doesn’t know how he gets from his advisor’s office back to his dorm room. It had taken the collective effort of Grantaire and Combeferre to get him out of his room, into the shower, and off to classes, and he knows he’s lucky when there’s no one waiting for him when he gets back. The conversation is playing over and over in his head.

( _“Enjolras, you’ve missed a lot of class this semester. You’re risking suspension.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Are you doing okay? We can talk to the counselor, if your anxiety is—”_

_“I’m fine. It won’t happen again.”_

_“Enjolras, I don’t mean to overstep, but you don’t look well. I know your work, and I know you, and I’ve seen neither this semester.”_

_“I’m just stressed, is all. I’m fine.”_

_“Have you had any thoughts… any thoughts of suicide or self harm?”_

_“No. I’m fine. I have to get to physics.”_

_“Okay. Just… you can come to me, if there’s a problem.”_

_“I will. Thank you.”_ )

Enjolras doesn’t go to physics. He turns the lights off in his room, lays down. His bones seem to melt into the mattress, and when he looks up, in the darkness everything looks like space. He can imagine he’s laying back, floating amongst the stars. 

_“Have you had any thoughts… any thoughts of suicide or self harm?”_

Enjolras doesn’t think he has, but then he thinks again about black holes and how they’re what remain when you strip away everything else, how they’re where gods throw things they don’t want found. If he sinks into that singularity, slips into the abscence of everything, his father won’t find him. 

But there’s a catch: you can’t jump into a black hole without dying. 

Enjolras realizes that’s what he’s wanted. Not actively, but he’s not opposed to the side-effect of dying anymore. He doesn’t think he has been for a while. 

Suddenly, Enjolras’s mind is clear. The distance and blurriness of the past few days is gone, and Enjolras feels like there’s a purpose. All of this, the tiredness, the disappointing of his friends, it could all be gone. It would be easy to die. 

Oh god. No, he can’t be thinking this. 

Before he can back out, he grabs his phone. He doesn’t trust himself to get up right now, because he doesn’t know what he’s going to do if he does. That scares him. That scares him, because he’s never been afraid himself—of his father, definitely, of suspension, maybe, but now he hears his heart beating behind his eyes, through his teeth, and he just, he knows that he needs to do something. He knows that if he doesn’t do something, call someone, it’s not going to end well. 

_Can you come over? Please._ Enjolras sends it to Combeferre, because he’s close and he doesn’t have class right now. In seconds, Combeferre is there. 

“Enjolras?” he asks, unable to hide the tremor in his voice. Slowly, Enjolras pulls himself into a sitting position.

“I don’t think… I don’t… I…” Enjolras takes a deep breath, trying to force the words out. “I don’t think I should be alone right now.”

There’s a second, when Combeferre processes what Enjolras just confessed, but then he’s next to Enjolras, wrapping his arms around his friend. He can feel Enjolras shaking, and he’s not crying, but Enjolras is speaking, low and fast into Combeferre’s shoulder.

“I didn’t… I didn’t think that I wanted to, but my advisor asked and I started thinking about black holes and gravity waves and I realized that I wanted to, I wanted to, but I don’t. I swear I don’t, and that’s why I texted, because I’m not sure what—” 

“Sh, it’s okay,” Combeferre shushes, because Enjolras isn’t making sense, but at the same time what he means is said clearly. “I’m here. I’m not leaving you. You’re safe.” Quickly and discreetly, Combeferre texts Courfeyrac and Grantaire, knowing that Enjolras is going to need as much support as he can get without having to explain. Combeferre knows that, if Enjolras doesn’t decide to go on his own, when the night is over he’s going to have to talk to the counselor. Enjolras needs help, regardless of if he wants it.

“I’m sorry.” Enjolras’s words are barely heard, and Combeferre can tell that Enjolras is crying now. He’s crying so hard that Combeferre can feel his friend’s chest heave, can hear the labored breaths as Enjolras cries. 

He doesn’t notice that Courfeyrac and Grantaire slip in until he’s surrounded, a head on his shoulder, a new hand on his back, and breathing becomes easier, just a little bit. 

“What’s going on, Enj?” Courfeyrac asks, and Enjolras just shakes his head a little in response. He can’t say it, not again. 

“Okay. Well we’re here. We’re all right here, E,” Grantaire promises, one of his hands finding Enjolras. “We’re right here.” 

It’s a promise, one that they keep. Courfeyrac, when Enjolras has contained the shaking of his entire body to just his hands, takes out his laptop and puts on _Brooklyn 99_ , which is collectively acknowledged as Enjolras’s favorite show that doesn’t periodically break the viewers’ collective hearts. 

So they just sit there, watching Jake Peralta’s shenanigans and waiting for Enjolras’s hands to stop shaking, for whatever urges spiralling through his mind to disappear. Eventually, Courfeyrac and Grantaire disappear to pick up the food Combeferre ordered, knowing there’s no way they’re getting Enjolras down to the dining hall tonight. Enjolras looks looks Combeferre in the eyes, a deep brown meeting fractured gray. 

Right now, Enjolras doesn’t think about space, but about how Courfeyrac’s eyes crinkle when he laughs, about the way Combeferre smiles all they way up through his eyes, about Grantaire’s art and Bahorel’s love for Thelonius Monk and he realizes how different junior year was. He misses how easy it was to breathe, how easy it was to get out bed, how easy it was to just exist. 

He wants that back. 

Swallowing the pride and black water in his throat, Enjolras hides his shaking hands. 

“I think you’re right.” The words are hard to get out, because if he’s going to admit this, everything is going to change. He can’t go back from this. 

“About what?” Combeferre can’t help but hope that finally, finally Enjolras will admit that something is wrong. Because if something is wrong, then it can get better, can be addressed. 

Enjolras twists his hands, looking down. “Me, being depressed.” 

Combeferre pulls Enjolras in for a hug, and he guides Enjolras’s head into the space between his shoulder and his neck. He gives Enjolras a few seconds before he speaks, to allow him time to recover from the magnitude of his confession. It was the largest step forward he’s seen Enjolras take this year. And it makes Combeferre’s heart swell, because he can see possibility, now.

“I’m so proud of you.” It’s genuine, and Enjolras feels his lips twitch into what he thinks is a smile, or at least the start of one. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Enjolras thinks that, sometimes, Combeferre is the star pulling Enjolras into his orbit, steering his path from the black holes and wrinkles that litter spacetime. He is the set of hands taking part of Enjolras’s burden, holding the universe with ease. 

There are places of great light, hidden amongst the vast nothingness of the galaxy called home. There are stars, connected by threads of human imagination, there are comets and planets and clusters of _being_ , of matter, and Enjolras is one of them. 

Or, he could be again.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! Let me know what you think in the comments or at thoseunheard.tumblr.com! I'm always down to talk all things triumverate, e/r, or just plain enj hurt.


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